


A Helping Hand

by the eternal feminine (redpenninja)



Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Developing Friendships, Gen, Heist, Male-Female Friendship, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sith trying to be funny
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 15:19:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9447269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redpenninja/pseuds/the%20eternal%20feminine
Summary: Bored of Imperial bureaucracy and family politics, the Emperor's Wrath escapes Kaas City to explore Nar Shaddaa. There he meets an intrepid young tomb raider who's about to hit the biggest mark of her career: him.





	1. Of All the Gin Joints

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a tumblr prompt, this is an (hopefully obvious) AU look at the Warrior and Vette’s relationship. In-game, my Warrior, Mexus, and Vette are grudging-partners-turned-best-friends-turned-lovers, but in this context I think they do much better as friends. Mexus is a character I’ve struggled to get a good grasp on. The Warrior storyline mentions briefly that the Warrior comes from a prominent Sith family, so I tend to see Mexus as a decent guy, but extremely used to Sith supremacy and Imperial politics. He struggles with a bad temper and big ego, but having grown up in an environment that appreciates those, doesn’t know any better. He had to learn independently to exist outside of his privileged upbringing, especially in a galaxy that doesn’t really care about that anymore. Essentially, he’s still very much Dark Side, but trying to use it logically. And, predictably, Vette is having none of that shit.

Lord Mexus Halaran, the Emperor’s Wrath, is brooding. He figured he would stop, maybe loosen up a bit and actually enjoy his time away, once he got out of orbit of Dromund Kaas, but no, it’s still there. He’s still as tense and irate as ever, even stars away from Imperial space. It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy being the Wrath (although ‘enjoy’ is a rather strong word, he decides); it’s an office that certainly comes with perks. It’s just…getting old. Before defeating Baras there had always been something to do: a new planet to carve his way through, new Jedi to face and Sith to upend. Now there’s just Council meetings and trying to decode Servant Two’s messages.

Nar Shaddaa was a good idea, originally. It had been an easy decision and even easier to execute among his staff. Quinn and Jaesa were keeping the estate on its tight schedule, while Pierce was off Force-knows-where and Mexus was supposedly on a trip to Dantooine for “reflection”. In reality he’d swapped his polished black armor for a duster and low-collared shirt and tucked his lightsaber away for a blaster he could barely use. Of course, looking the part of some backwater thug didn’t mean he’d just stumble across the action he’d been craving since Correllia. No, instead, he finds himself in the backroom of a dark cantina, his hand curled into a tight fist on the tabletop as he nurses his third drink and tries to decide whether or not killing the off-key band in the other room would be worth it.

Coming here probably was a bad idea, he figures after a few more minutes of contemplation that he doesn’t usually indulge in on Dromund Kaas. If he’d known he would spend two straight days drinking and wandering around, waiting for something to happen, he would have at least brought Pierce along with him to have someone to start fights with in the cantinas. But that’s another thing, isn’t it? Here he sits, one of the most powerful Sith the Empire, the whole galaxy even, has ever known, fidgeting in his seat and hoping that the Force will drop something interesting in his lap instead of going out and getting it himself. Some Sith! What would his mother say?

Naturally, he doesn’t move, save to lift his tumbler of whiskey to his lips for another long pull. If he were to stand (which he won’t), he’s certain he’d find that he’s good and drunk now. Again.

Two tables over, a Rodian with a rolling gut slams his hand on the table and booms something incomprehensible in his sharp, hissing tongue. More yelling, mostly on the part of the enormous Twi’lek man arguing in Huttese, and then they’re all on their feet, jabbing fingers and getting in each other’s faces. Mexus snorts into his glass and huddles himself around it again; it’s like he never left the Dark Council chambers.

Chairs hit the floor with a ringing clatter, and a few men on the other side of the room howl with laughter, followed by the telltale, almost gravelly sound of a blaster being ripped from its holster. Mexus looks up from his whiskey (no longer the most interesting thing in the room) just in time to catch a blur of pure blue, as bright and infinite and stunning as the clear, untouched sky of Tatooine, pummeling toward him. The blur materializes as a Rutian Twi’lek woman careening backward toward him before colliding into his chair, sending his whiskey flying across the table and knocking Mexus clear out of his seat. He lands with a hard thud with the woman on top of him, shaking her head to clear it from the daze of the hit.

“Looks like I owe you a drink,” the woman says, sparing a long glance at the whiskey dripping onto the floor in a small amber puddle. As the two thugs advance again on her, she untangles her limbs from Mexus’ and pushes herself off of his lap. “But not now. Toodles!”

And then she leaps at the two men again, landing a solid punch to the Twi’lek’s gut and stomping down on the Rodian’s foot. She seems to get a rhythm down, using the Twi’lek’s size against him as she ducks under his enormous arms and aims for his exposed middle and then turning and dodging the Rodian’s much slower, wider throws. It doesn’t last long, though, when the Rodian nails a kick to the back of her shin and sends her stumbling again…straight into a slap hard enough to snap her neck in the other direction.

She goes down, mostly in shock rather than in defeat, it seems. Fight over. Or not, because Mexus decides that that wasn’t nearly enough action for one day, and lunges at the Twi’lek, knocking him into an empty table and punching him square in the jaw. He slumps against the overturned table just as the Rodian collides with Mexus, kneeing him in the back and forcing him down on the floor. Mexus latches onto the Rodian’s shoulders and forces him to roll onto his back, managing one hit before the Rodian kicks him off. Mexus lands on his tailbone, the Rodian following close behind and pinning him to the floor. The punch to his nose comes faster and with more pain than he expected, releasing a rush blood the moment the Rodian winds up his hand for another.

But it never comes. Instead, the Rodian slumps forward against Mexus before rolling off of him and collapsing on his side. Above him, the Twi’lek woman tosses aside half of a broken bottle and looks down at him, her expression frozen somewhere between amused and unimpressed. Eventually she lands on neutral, casting him an almost comical pitying glance.

“Here.” The woman hands him a stack of crumpled bar napkins. Then she drops to a knee beside him, rolling over the Rodian’s unconscious body and rummaging through his pockets, coming up empty-handed with a sigh. “Damn. Where’d the other one go?”

“I threw him over there,” Mexus gestures vaguely to the other side of the room, his voice coming out muffled and thick from the napkins and the impossible throbbing in his nose. He’s careful to force his voice into the neutral accent they taught him at the Academy, just in case. It still comes out stiff and hollow, definitely not good enough to pass under scrutiny, but this woman doesn’t seem like the details type.

The Twi’lek woman glares at him with narrowed eyes, “I mean, _yeah_ , but he’s not there anymore.”

Mexus shifts his grip on the wad of napkins and fixes her with his Wrath stare: flared nostrils and cunning, keen eyes, lip pulled slightly back into a predatory sneer. Of course, with the napkins covering his nose and mouth, and the green hololenses he bought specifically for this trip, it doesn’t do much and she ignores him anyway.

“Must’ve run off,” she says under her breath. Then she glances at him again and, after a slight hesitation, offers him her hand. “Hey, uh…thanks, I guess. You really didn’t have to do that.”

“I do what I like,” Mexus replies, taking her outstretched hand and getting to his feet.

His tattered duster shifts as he moves, but he doesn’t feel the familiar weight of his lightsaber in its inseam pocket. Snatching his hand back from the woman, he pats down his coat with increased panic, checking side pockets and the holster at his belt although he knows it was in his coat up until a moment ago. He prods the pocket with the tips of his fingers, as if that alone would be enough to ignore that his blade is gone, before jabbing his fingers against his temples and forcing himself to calm down. Tearing through this cantina wouldn’t solve the problem.

“Yikes, did he get you too? Lasalo’s known for that, apparently,” the woman says. “Probably faked being knocked out to wipe you and me.”

“What does he have of yours?” Mexus says. It never occurred to him to wonder why they were fighting to begin with.

“Either a refund, or the stuff I asked for.” The woman shrugs and her eyes slide to the side, away from his face. “We’ll find out if we catch up to him.”

“We?” Mexus’ eyebrows shoot to his hairline.

“Uh…yeah? It’s stupid for us to split up if we’re after the same goon,” the woman says. Then she throws her shoulders up in a dramatized shrug and shoots him a wink. Mexus blinks hard; he can’t think of the last time anyone was so bold with him. “And you’re looking at the most popular girl in the Underworld. I know where he went, probably.”

“Probably.” If Quinn were here, he would absolutely loathe this.

“Better than nothing,” she singsongs. “Now, come on…uh, you got a name?”

He hesitates for a moment and then spits out an old nickname from his Academy days, “Hal.”

“Uh-huh,” the woman says, her lips twitching sideways into a smile. “I’m Vette. And yes, the pleasure is all yours.”

She sticks her hand out again for him to shake and the look on her face is so blindingly self-assured and bright that Mexus laughs in spite of himself. It’s a quick, dry little note that he had almost forgotten the sound of; his real laugh, not the arrogant chuckle that he uses at Council meetings or the fake deranged cackle he scares Jedi with. He slides his hand into hers and shakes firmly, and he feels every mile of space between him and Dromund Kaas.


	2. If You'd Be My Bodyguard...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vette gets her money's worth, Mexus gets a job, and everyone has an opinion on everything.

Whether or not Vette is as popular as she would make herself out to be (Mexus has decided probably not, since those men were so willing to go after her), she certainly knows her way around Nar Shaddaa. She would have been helpful to have around a year or so ago when he and Quinn were chasing down Lord Rathari and Baras’ spy, back before they’d caught up with Jaesa. Quinn had hated every second they’d spent in the city, and no one had seemed startled by Mexus’ red blade and tainted eyes, as if they’d all seen every trick the galaxy could throw at them before. Maybe that’s why Vette is so unbothered by him, whereas even Republic admirals turn and flee; even Force-blinds can sometimes get a prickle of an instinct that he’s dangerous, like how k’lor slugs scatter when they smell rancor. But not her. She’s either entirely clueless or entirely too smart for any of his tricks. He won’t stick along long enough to decide which, though. Once he gets his lightsaber back, he’ll move on from her.

He’s beginning to think he won’t make it to getting his lightsaber back. It was her idea for them to go after the guy together, but now it seems she’s intent on driving him away, talking a mile a minute and gesturing wildly with her hands as they walk. He shoves his hands down in his pockets and curls them into tight fists, his fingernails digging into the palms of his hand until he can’t feel it anymore.

“…and anyway, I’m not a snitch,” she’s saying. “Even if I got caught, which I never do obviously, my first thought wouldn’t be ‘here’s my chance to rat out the guys who made the passes’, you know?”

Mexus doesn’t know, as a matter of fact, but the thought of fake ID chips peaks his interest and subsides the latent irritation building underneath his false lenses and tight jaw. “Passes for what?”

Vette clicks her tongue at him, “Hey, I’m not going to show my whole hand. Let’s just say I’ve been planning this hunt for a lifetime and I’m not about to let a couple of Padawan pricks mess it up.”

Mexus arches an eyebrow, recognizing the phrase from Pierce’s frequent raving holocalls with his old black ops division. For Pierce and the rest of the Imperial military, it referred to overly worried men who bent too easily in the face of defeat. The meaning seems to have carried over orbits, but he doubts Vette knows its origins in Imperial barracks cantinas.

“Here we are,” Vette announces as they round a corner into a narrow, dingy alleyway off of the main street.

The street itself was about as dismal, but the alley is more isolated from the artificial light and the drone of speeders passing above. They stride down past children playing in the gutters or on the stoops of the apartments lining the small street, not sparing Mexus or Vette a second glance, even as Vette unhooks one of her blasters from her low-hanging belt. Even at such a young age, they’re used to the insanity that runs rampant through their home planet. Mexus could shoot lightning out of his eyes and they’d probably continue playing pretend Huttball, business as usual.

“All right, it’s that one right over there,” Vette says, gesturing to a door further down the street, shadowed by an outdated information console. She tests the weight of her blaster in her hand and then stops altogether, turning to look up at him. “Okay, here’s what I’m thinking. He won’t answer the door if it’s me, so you’ll have to knock. When he asks for the password, I think the last one was ‘Jedi Rocks’. Then when he opens the door, we’ll rush him and I’ll conk him on the head. Deal?”

Mexus pushes his duster back, away from his hip, to reveal the barrel of his blaster, tucked neatly into a brand-new holster at his side. The unused silver plating glints red and yellow in the artificial light. “Or I could shoot him when he answers instead. Much less work.”

“Down, boy,” Vette raises her free hand and holds it out to stop him. “This guy’s one of the best in the business. Once he gets over himself, I could need him again. And I don’t want the rest of the Underworld chasing after me just because the new guy got trigger-happy, you know?”

Mexus does not, in fact, know, but he doubts that any explanation of hers would clear up his confusion. Instead he relents and covers his blaster again. He’d come to Nar Shaddaa for a break from being the Wrath and if that meant playing by the rules of a Twi’lek half his size, so be it. He can always go after military lackeys that irk him when he gets home. Vette goes to crouch behind the console, its once-polished finish now stained with exhaust, while Mexus steps to the door. He knocks twice before he’s greeted with a piercing blue eye in the peephole and a thickly accented voice over the sputtering intercom.

“Password?” Basic clearly isn’t this Lasalo’s first language.

“Jedi Rocks,” Mexus says in his equally stilted accent.

“Old one,” Lasalo replies in a stiff voice. “No password, no deal.”

Mexus feels his fist curl up of its own accord, his nails finding their deep indents from his last frustration and digging in hard. He clears his throat and growls out in as low of a tone as he can manage, “You want to open the door. You want to let me in.”

The intercom goes dead for a moment before, in a hollow, resigned voice, Lasalo speaks again, “I want to open the door. I want to let you in.”

As the door hisses and slices open, Vette leaps from behind the console with an exaggerated “hi-ya!” and charges toward the door. Lasalo’s glassy eyes illuminate with consciousness, the effects of Mexus’ Force trick dissipating the moment danger strikes, but it’s already too late. Vette clips the side of his head with the butt of her blaster and he topples to the floor, half-in and half-out of the apartment. Mexus glances down the street; the children stare back at him for a moment before their eyes dim with boredom and return to their game.

“Help me with him, would you?” Vette asks, struggling to get a sure grip on Lasalo’s tree-like legs.

Mexus steps around the man and grabs him from under the shoulders, finagling with him awkwardly until they move him inside the tiny, cluttered room. The whole apartment seems to be just this one room, with a dirty mattress in one corner and tables and consoles taking up the rest of the space. The grimy walls are covered with ID pictures and bounty orders, the tabletops loaded with blaster clips and plastic cards waiting to be molded into fake passes. Mexus spots his lightsaber on the table by the door and calls it into his hand while Vette is distracted with combing through Lasalo’s pockets.

He tucks the blade in his inseam pocket without even a rustle of his clothing, the heavy presence of his hilt soothing a nagging worry he hadn’t realized had latched onto his mind. Vette is still muttering to herself and emptying credit pouches and stim containers from Lasalo’s jacket, so Mexus snoops around the tables, looking for familiar faces or planets. He pushes aside a disinteresting file that was certainly there to cover up something else to find an unsmiling picture of Vette staring up at him, on a small ID chip bearing the Imperial stamp…and the stamp of his family’s crest.

“You’re going to Imperial space?” He forces himself to keep his voice neutral, but he’s practically vibrating in his skin, caught between curiosity and audacious anger.

“You found it!” Vette comes bounding to his side and snatches the ID off of the table, tucking it neatly in her jacket. She bites her lip and shifts her weight to the side, a womp rat cornered by a krayt dragon. “That’s the big secret master plan. Monkey-lizard’s out of the bag now. That’s why these idiots didn’t want to give ‘em to me. They thought I was just planning on hitting Imp bases around here, not headed for the rancor’s den.”

“It’s a terribly stupid master plan,” Mexus drawls.

“No, it isn’t,” Vette snaps, the caginess darting away from her features and the perpetual humor dimming from her eyes. “And even if it is, it has to be done. Do you know whose symbol this is?”

She pulls out the card and jabs her finger at the familiar, almost comforting symbol of his family’s crest: grape vines winding around an ancient lightsaber hilt as the blade blots out the sun. This time, it instills no pride, leaving him floundering and strangely numb, as if he’s reading a language he’s never seen.

“No?”

“The Emperor’s Wrath,” she says, voice cold. “Until a couple of years ago, most of us out here didn’t know who the hell he was. But apparently he was in charge of a ton of campaigns that essentially ruined this whole part of the galaxy. Remember Makeb?”

He does. “I do.”

“Word right now is that he has this huge art collection. Old as hell, full of super valuable stuff that he and all his Sithy ancestors stole from the places they conquered. My people and I have been looking for the Star of Kala’uun for generations. And now we find out that it’s in the hands of one of bigwigs in charge of the Empire who enslaved us in the first place.”

“I’ve heard the Wrath doesn’t have slaves.” It’s true. His mother never had slaves on the estate, nor did his uncles after she died. He'd always been taught that slaves were for government projects, or families so low in esteem that they couldn’t amass their own followers and staff. The Halarans never had that particular problem.

Vette glares at him, “Does it matter? Look, the point is, Twi’leks have been trying to reclaim all the stuff we lost from slavery, and the Star’s a huge part of that. I’m going to get it back.”

The trophy room isn’t unknown to him; as a child it was his favorite place on the estate to visit and marvel at everything his ancestors had accomplished. It had never occurred to him that all the things his family had claimed, everything that had been a token of victory, had come from the defeat of someone else. He had led campaigns and taken over worlds before, but that had all been very…impersonal, against the Republic and the Jedi, not the people who’d lived the towns that had been converted to military bases. After all, he usually let factory workers and miners and scientists go, at the most sending them to Imperial bases for new work detail. He’d never had to stare at or even think about the cultures they’d imperialized. But that was the very basics of Sith teachings: there were the haves, and the have-nots. Except he had never met a have-not that was so convinced that she’s a have.

“You’re very sure of yourself,” Mexus comments, his throat thick and his tongue dry. It’s something about the intensity of her words, held in opposition to the cold lifelessness in her eyes. Regardless of what she lets on, she’s more than the most popular girl in the Underworld.

“Well, no one else is gonna do it for me,” Vette snaps back. She takes a deep breath and pockets the ID again. “As riveting as this has been, Hal, we should get going before Las here wakes up. And I’ve got a flight to catch.”

“To Dromund Kaas?”

“You guessed it,” she says, seeming to relax a bit again. “Wish me luck.”

He almost laughs. For all of her sneaking around and quick draws, she’ll be up to her neck in complications the moment she crosses over into Imperial space. It would almost be entertaining, like watching a brawl in Pierce’s barracks. She must notice his sideways smile, because she folds her arms and tilts her head to the side in false anticipation.

“What astute observation do you have for us now?”

“I’ll come with you,” he says, some of his amusement billowing up into his words.

“Uh-huh,” she repeats, starting to turn for the door.

“No, no, honestly.” He reaches out to grab her arm and stop her, but she wrenches out of his grip, eyes wild. He steps away, his hand dropping to his side. “I…sorry.”

The word is foul and uncertain in his already strained accent. Some of the caginess recedes from her eyes and he continues, trying to lower his voice as much as he can. “You said yourself, everyone thinks this job is a bust. You’re better off going in with a partner, and I need a job.”

“It doesn’t pay well,” she says carefully. “And you’ll have to follow my lead.”

Mexus shrugs, “That’s what I’ve been doing.”

She regards him for a long moment and just when he’s sure that she’s going to say no, she mimics his shrug and sticks out her hand. “Good point. Let’s go rob a Wrath.”

Her smile is less guarded, and her handshake is just as firm, if not more eager. He tries to match her genuineness, remolding his usually calculating smile into something more approachable. They step back out into the street, headed back to Dromund Kaas. Jaesa would laugh at the irony, were she here; come up with an elaborate scheme to abandon Imperial life, only to go racing back with the first thief he picks up off the street. A very confident thief, but all the same, no match for anything the Empire could throw at her. He’ll have to place bets with himself along the way; it’s been too long since he’s had a good wager.

Smirking to himself, he follows her around the corner back to the main square of the sector, wondering if she’ll even be alive this time next week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Mexus is still a jerk. And he's got at least one more chapter of being a douche before he gets more tolerable. Sort of like a Sith frat guy.


	3. Choking on Aspirations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Predictably, the flight to Dromund Kaas is...bumpy.

They arrive at the departure platform just in time to be greeted and ushered on board by a tall, lean Mirialan man whose aura flickers unsteadily and sporadically in the Force. Although, Mexus doesn’t need the Force to catch the quick, sudden movements of his eyes and the tremors in his hands, the breathlessness of his voice and creeping flush on his tattooed cheeks. He and Vette chatter like birds while they wind their way through the narrow halls of the supply freighter, leaving Mexus to follow along at a more languid pace, relieved to be free of the conversation at least for now.

The Mirialan directs them down a side hall wedged in between two of the massive cargo holds and stops in front of a small door, out of the way from the rest of the ship. His aura still lilts with a tense, bottled-up nervousness that spikes higher when he lays eyes on Mexus for a long moment before he flicks his gaze back to the safety of Vette’s much brighter face.

“Well, this is the best I can do,” the Mirialan says, his grass-green ears flushing darker under the curtain of his thin, light hair. He presses the button on the panel and the door shoots open, revealing an unkempt rec room of sorts. “The captain and I are the only ones who know you’re on board. Normally the rest of the crew wouldn’t give you much grief but, uh…we have an Imperial overseeing the delivery this time.”

“You what?” Vette throws her hands in the air. “And this wasn’t the first thing you should’ve told me because?”

“I’m sorry, Vette!” The Mirialan splutters. “I didn’t know until today and I didn’t know how to reach you once I found out. Plus, I figured you’d want the ride no matter what…and I sort of wanted to see you again.”

“Wow, I guess chivalry isn’t dead,” Vette says, in a tone straddling the line between airy and flippant so much so that even Mexus can’t tell what she means. She presses her hands together as if she’s praying and bows her head into it so her nose touches the tips of her fingers, inhaling deeply before continuing. “I still want the ride. Is there anything we should know about the Imp?”

The Mirialan shrugs helplessly, the discomfort rolling off of him in thick, distracting waves that draw an undisguised huff from Mexus. The look Vette shoots him this time, though, is more of a companionable irritation than anything else.

“He’s one of the officials from the town the Wrath’s estate oversees,” he says. “I think it’s called Halar? His name’s Major Krev. He’s got something to do with dealing with the trade in town for the Wrath, trying to win himself a promotion and all that.”

Mexus tries to place a face to the name, but he generally avoids Halar as a rule. Although he’s technically the highest ranking lord in the family now, and by default the head of the Halaran family, he had deferred most of his duties to his uncle, the head before him. He’d only started to take more of an interest recently, though it was more out of boredom than an actual, genuine concern for family politics. And then he’d wound up even more bored than when he had first started. If he had ever met Major Krev, his face was just one more in the thousands of Imperial bootlickers he’d met over his career. Either way, for the sake of his little adventure, he resolves to keep an eye out in case Krev had done his homework and recognizes Mexus.

“I guess I can’t say you didn’t warn me,” Vette sighs. “Well, thanks, Zar. You got anything else for us?”

Zar’s eyes turn shifty again, “Captain Christas told me it’d be smart for you to stay hidden so you don’t run into Krev.”

The corner of his mouth twitches as his eyes snap over to Mexus before landing again on Vette, the icy fear melting away into molten fondness. “But I’ll check up on you when I can…make sure you’re not having any trouble.”

Vette stiffens in her slouch against the doorframe and her polished silver aura flares in sparks of muted yellow that manifest themselves in the setting of her jaw and the hard glint in her eyes. “Uh…yeah, like I said, thanks but I think Hal and I need a rest before you take off. _Right_ , Hal?”

She locks eyes with him and jerks her head tightly in the direction of the rec room, her lips pursed in exasperation.

“Yes, right,” Mexus says helpfully, trying for a reassuring smile that must come out like a grimace, if Vette’s mortified face is anything to go by.

Zar narrows his eyes and starts to say something again, but Vette reaches out and squeezes his arm, her smile sunny and her head tilted to the side gently. “Thanks for the help! Keep us updated, all right?”

Then she grabs Mexus by the wrist and tugs him into the rec room, leaving a slack-jawed Zar standing outside as she slams her elbow into the panel and the door slides shut. She flounces over to the couch and throws herself down with a loud groan, kicking off her boots and scrubbing her eyes with her hands. Mexus leans against the dejarik table on the far side of the room and tries to wipe the smirk off his face before she sees it.

“An admirer of yours?” He says before he can stop himself, his accent almost slipping out as he takes on the haughty, snide tone that drives the Dark Council crazy, and Baras before them.

“One-sided,” Vette says, rolling over onto her side and propping herself up on her elbow. “I tried to let him down easy and he looked at me like I was speaking Ryl. Guess he forgot I told him I wasn’t interested.”

“So it seems.”

She flops again onto her back and stares up at her reflection in the polished, dark metallic ceiling. “I’ve never really dated a lot, though. It just never interested me. And all the guys around here are either gigantic asshats, or they’re like Sir Zar out there and think I’m some dopey Twi’lek who needs protecting or something. Like I’ve never seen what the galaxy is ‘really like’ or whatever. Even if they knew, they still probably wouldn’t take me seriously…”

From somewhere below them, the engine rumbles to life and they feel the ship shudder and ascend from the landing platform. The pedantic air in the room shatters. She skitters her eyes over to him and seems to remember where she is and who she’s with, her features mellowing from their tight, thoughtful look.

“Guess that was a lot for the first day, huh? Sorry,” she shrugs, not really seeming sorry at all. Whatever she’s carrying around with her, she’s turned it into her own. “You can tell me something deep and dark if you want. Make it even.”

He regards her coolly for a moment before folding his arms and looking down his nose at her. “All right. I think your reasoning for going after the Wrath is unjustified.”

There’s a part of him that’s only gunning to get a rise out of her, to dip into that righteous anger he’d sensed in her at the beginning, but another voice guides his accusation. He’d never met anyone with such strong opinions, or at least, anyone that would willingly share them with him. Whichever Sith philosopher had said anonymity was for the weak had clearly never been the Emperor’s Wrath.

“You’re kidding, right,” she huffs, sitting up straight and straightening her shoulders into a defensive position. “The guy’s a murderer, that stupid town he’s in charge of is a slave port, and he stole from an entire race of people. Probably multiple races! If you can think of a single reason to justify all that, I’m on the edge of my seat for it.”

“He’s an Imperial figurehead,” Mexus shrugs. His flippancy sends a surge of sharp anger through her and he takes a deep breath, her emotion in the air burning in his lungs like the embers of a forest fire. “The people are probably grateful for everything he’s done for the Empire. The Republic is the same way about that Hero of Tython clown.”

“Look, I’m not some Jedi kiss-ass either, but they at least don’t take _pleasure_ from it. Every Sith acts like going to war is a ride on a Hutt barge. If you’re all right with that, then why are you even coming along to begin with?”

“I never said I was all right with it,” Mexus says evenly. Her words bounce around in his head as he tries to remember the last time he actually enjoyed a fight. Fighting Baras was satisfying, but only because it had been such a long time coming, his rage settling within him and mulling like the wines from his family’s vineyards. Taking down soldiers, though, had never been anything but a chore. “But the Wrath’s still a person. People have layers.”

Now he’s done it. Something in her aura snaps and washes her with a brimming, potent orange that rolls off her in vibrant, assaulting waves that flood his senses all at once, threatening to drown him in emotion until he slides his barriers shut again. His chest heaves from the intensity of it and she fixes him with the most abhorred, defiant glare. It’s her eyes that catch him, though, the lifelessness that drowns out the rest of the emotion, no matter what he had sensed.

“I don’t know who the hell you are, Hal, or what you think you’re talking about, but you’re in over your head,” she snarls. “The Wrath is a disgusting, murderous worm, all Sith are! And if you think for a second that any other ‘layer’ of that is good enough to cover that up, then you’re just as awful as the rest of them.”

There’s plenty that he wants to say, plenty of memories of patching up Imperial soldiers or sparing wounded Padawans who weren’t far along enough to be completely brainwashed, of teaching new, fresh-faced acolytes to think, restrain, wait. But none of that comes out; he’s still so foggy from the crushing weight of her emotion that he isn’t in control of his own. Instead, he laughs, a small bark of a condescending chuckle, but it’s enough to do the damage. She rounds on him with newfound disdain, somehow digging deeper into the reserve of her own emotion and setting the air alit again.

“Get out,” she snaps. When his eyebrows shoot up and his laughter stops, she points a shaking finger at the door. “I’m serious. Get out. This isn’t a debate, okay? And it sure as hell isn’t a joke.”

“I thought you didn’t like taking things seriously,” he says, but the humor is truly gone now, and he can’t bring back the good-naturedness into her eyes.

“This is a pretty serious topic, in case you haven’t noticed,” she says. “Now, go. I’m done with this.”

She rolls back over so she’s facing the back of the couch, her legs curled up against her chest and her back to him. He can make out the outline of her shoulder blades underneath the fabric of her shirt, the swirling patterns that twine their way up her lekku. She shifts slightly, her lekku falling away from her neck to reveal ropy, reddish scars that encircle the back of her neck, reminding him of the burns on his fingertips and palm when he had first attempted Force lightning at the Academy. There’s something familiar about her scars, though, but he can’t quite place why.

He leaves the room with a strange, iron taste in his mouth and his impulse to fight back at her just below the boiling point. Leaning against the wall, he forces himself to take a deep breath and push the initial impulse back below the surface. Even through the barrier of the door, Vette’s Force signature leaks into his consciousness, silvery and genuine and bright. It radiates a steady sort of strength, intertwined with a thin sorrow that he’d never noticed before. Feeling intrusive, he backs away from the door and heads down the hall to the main passages of the ship.

He doesn’t make it far before an Imperial accent from around the corner stops him in his tracks, clipped and tight with self-importance. There’s another member of the crew, one who isn’t Zar, attempting to argue with him in a low, dull tone until the hard, resounding crack of a slap stills the air. Mexus peers around the corner to catch the mate, some Zabrak kid whose young horns have grown in jagged and stilted, holding his cheek while the Major hovers over him. Krev looks like any other Imperial drone Mexus has had to deal with: pristine black military coat, thinning grey hair, and beady eyes more joyless and calculating than most Sith he knows.

“Cross me again, boy, and I’ll have those horns yanked from your head,” Krev sneers. “You were given an order, now go.”

The Zabrak scurries off down the hall, probably to go hide and skulk with his shipmates for a while before actually doing whatever Krev assigned to him. Mexus has learned (the hard way, mostly) that instilling fear only does so much before it turns the entire operation into a chaotic, overwhelming mess, with emotion running rife in the Force and men lurking in the shadows rather than obeying orders. In the past he ran his regiments with an iron fist, but the basis of Sith philosophy is utilizing resources to their fullest capacity, and as far as he can see, turning once-brave soldiers into sniveling messes is hardly useful.

Krev, however, like most Imperials, hasn’t thought it through. These men will probably never contract a deal with the Imperials again, and Halar will suffer for it. Vette had been right on one score, after all. Some Imperials refuse to see logic, living in a narrow world where nothing matters but their own personal gain and pleasure. He bristles at the thought of this…this _worm_ running Halar, the home of his ancestors, right into the ground and lunges into the hall after Krev. The Major turns with a small sneer curling his lip, as if he was expecting the Zabrak again, but the malice drains from his face when he recognizes Mexus.

“My…my Lord Wrath,” he breathes, his voice coming out desperate and uncertain.

“Fancy yourself an Admiral, do you?” Mexus says, circling around the Major as much as the tiny hall will allow him. His accent sounds nearly foreign after so long stored away.

“I…only to serve you better, my lord,” Krev says smartly. They’re all like this, backhanded with their compliments and up so high on their officers’ pedestals. Even Pierce, who Mexus could almost call a friend, could be uptight and roundabout at the worst of times.

“Mhm,” Mexus hums. “And how does abusing the crew of one of our supply ships serve me?”

“He wouldn’t follow my orders,” the Major splutters, a bit of color tinting his fleshy cheeks as he reanimates himself. “I—“

“Do you think these men will ever strike a deal with us again?” Mexus cuts him off. “And would it be possible that they would turn other potential suppliers away from us because of you? And that maybe, just maybe, if you had left well enough alone, we wouldn’t be having this conversation at all?”

Krev’s gaze darts downwards to where his hands fidget with the ends of his military coat, but he takes a deep, shuddering breath and forces his face into a neutral, almost amiable expression. “My lord, my intention isn’t to disrespect you while doing my duty. I don’t understand why you’re here at all, my lord. I wasn’t informed that-”

Mexus rolls his eyes and clenches his hand into a fist, the fear reigniting in Krev’s eyes as he reaches up to claw at his throat, his breath stuttering in wet hitches. They lock eyes and Mexus knows that the cheap hololenses he’s wearing aren’t enough to keep the orange from leaking through as he reaches deeper into the Force.

“I think that’s enough talk for one day. Actually, I think that’s enough talk once and for all.” Mexus applies a little more pressure to the Major’s windpipe. The air between them hums with ripe, overbearing fear.

Just as the color is beginning to fade from Krev’s lips, Mexus releases the hold and Krev collapses to the ground, wheezing and coughing as he sucks in fresh air. Mexus clicks his tongue and looks down at him demurely.

“Now I want you to listen carefully, Major,” Mexus says, the forced breeziness in his voice stilling the air. “I don’t want to see your face on this voyage again. In fact, if I even hear that you bother the crew again, I’ll have what’s left of your hair yanked from your head. Does that seem like an order you can follow? Preferably without any more commentary.”

Krev rises unsteadily to his feet and snaps to attention. “Of course, my lord.”

They stare at each other for a long moment before Mexus arches an eyebrow and flicks his hand forward. “Well? Get moving.”

After an awkward little half-bow, Krev hurries down the hall with his head down, passing by an approaching mechanic without even glancing up. Satisfied, Mexus allows himself a small smirk and a private little laugh. Usually, he tries not to let the bureaucracy get to him; for the most part he can respect the soldiers who don’t think too highly of themselves. At the very least, though, keeping Krev in his cabin will make sure that he and Vette won’t have to stay trapped in that powder keg of a rec room. He can still feel the power surging through him, burning and all-encompassing, so he knows his eyes aren’t quite settled yet.

Turning away from the passerby, he heads down the hall in search of the galley. Doing something with his hands will help him rein in his impulses, and he’s long overdue for a snack anyway. Naturally, there isn’t much to work with in a kitchen this small, so he slaps together a sandwich as best he can, the familiar movements and the promise of delicious food setting him centered again. He slices it in half as a final measure and starts to clean up, but thinks better of it. If Vette is anything like his crew, she’ll swipe the other half whether he wants her to or not, so he makes another sandwich just in case. If anything, it’ll keep the rec room quiet for a while.

Balancing the plates in one hand, he returns to the room to find Vette wide awake and sitting up, practically glowing with mischief and gossip.

“Hey, you’re back!” She chirps, much lighter and brighter than their argument earlier. “Is one of those for me?”

Mexus passes over one of the plates and they eat in silence for a while, the room still and unthreatening. Even his senses feel duller and less bombarded. But silence seems like an allergy to her, and she starts up again after a few bites.

“So, one of the guys just came by to tell me that someone scared Krev into hiding out in his room,” Vette says conspiratorially. “So I guess we don’t have to worry about avoiding him.”

“I guess not,” Mexus agrees.

“Now, why do I get the feeling that you swooped in and roughed him up for us?”

“Right after you specifically said you don’t like being rescued?” Mexus arches an eyebrow and holds his sandwich up like a peace offering. “Wouldn’t think of it.”

“Uh-huh,” Vette repeats.

“But you’re right about one thing,” Mexus says after a beat. He isn’t sure if he’s lying through his teeth or not. Mainly, he decides, he doesn’t want to draw that profound sorrow from her again. “Some Imperials could use a…reality check.”

“Glad we can agree on _that_ ,” Vette says. “How about a round of dejarik?”

They move to the table on the other side of the room and sit across from each other, picking at the remains of their sandwiches and chatting with more ease than before. He watches her laugh and talk with her hands, fiddle with the ends of her lekku while she plots her next move and look up at him with a wink when she does something strategic. The Force is aglow with pure life and steadfast, unapologetic _being_ , and he decides as he lets it all wash over him that he wasn’t lying after all. This is a reality check, if he’s ever had one; he’s never been so close to anything more blatantly real.


	4. Made for Walking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which more Imperials are surprisingly easy to defeat, Vette is the best companion, and Mexus does the right thing.

The cargo ship lands at the docks outside of Halar, right where the river begins to crest around the peninsula that the town sits on. In the distance, the family estate looms over the iron-grey, churning waters of the river. From this side of the river, the spires of the mansion blot out what little of the sun peaks through the heavy grey cloud cover, casting a long shadow over the town. Mexus has never seen the estate from this angle; in all honesty he’s never even been to the docks before. Even though the docks were under the Halarans’ management, they typically annexed out those duties to local officials, like Major Krev. Well, maybe not Krev anymore.

“We have to move,” Vette says as she comes up behind him on the gangplank. “The Imps will be here any second.”

She grabs his wrist and drags him off of the landing pad, where the platform gives way to the thick growth of the jungle. He stumbles a bit in surprise, throwing a glance back to the docks and the pathways leading to the main road into the city. A group of Imperial soldiers strides up the path, halting right in front of the ship where Mexus had stood just moments before. One of them glances over to the underbrush where they’ve concealed themselves, and Vette digs her nails into his forearm until the Imperial turns back to the ship and disappears inside for the routine inspection.

“Whew, close one,” Vette says with a stilted laugh. She releases his arm and dusts off her hands. “All right, you ready?”

“For?”

“A walk in the jungle.” At his incredulous stare, she laughs again, this one sounding genuine and brimming with vibrancy even in the oppressive humidity of Dromund Kaas. “You didn’t think we were just going to strut into town and hitch a ride to the Wrath’s place, did you?”

He isn’t sure what he thought, actually, but it wasn’t that. Her plan makes sense, he supposes; Halar is surrounded by jungle on one side and the river and the estate on the other, and traffic toward Kaas City goes down the river, away from the estate, rather than along it. They won’t be bothered there, unless they run into one of the scouting parties that are always setting off from the center of Halar.

For as long as he can remember, Kaas City has authorized Reclamation Service expeditions into the jungle surrounding Halar, sending slaves and IRS grunts into the chain of caverns that thread their way through the jungle and up the river in this area. Halar has always been the starting point, and has inadvertently turned into a slave market because of it. Returning expeditions often draw crowds of traders to buy the remaining slaves from the expedition parties, and the IRS is happy to oblige if it means turning a profit from mostly unsuccessful expeditions. Mexus can never remember what they’re looking for—whether it be resources or usable land or Sith history—only that the trips are wildly useless, but keep happening anyways. It must have been his grandfather that authorized their use of Halar as a staging ground, as the bulk of Halar’s income in recent memory has always been through accommodation for the IRS, and the eventual swelling of the city’s tourism industry once the expedition season ends and the trade begins.

“So your big plan is a stroll through the woods up to his front door?” Mexus intones.

Vette shrugs, “If I’m being honest, I don’t really know much about the place. It’s got the river at the front, and Zar told me there’s vineyards on the Western side, so I was thinking we could shoot through the jungle that way, cross the river and cut through the vineyard to the house. Easy?”

She seems a little out of her element, less confident and wayward than before. It could be the planet; Dromund Kaas practically thrives off of despair and doubt, but it’s something else too. A strange, almost residual fear, as if she’s gotten in over her head like this before and is kicking herself now for letting it happen again.

In spite of himself, he smiles without his teeth, the more amiable, sincere look he reserves only for his favorite cousins and during his more appreciative moments with Jaesa. “Easy.”

A slow smile slides its way up her features, banishing some of the uncertainty that had tainted her aura. “Good to know you’re my corner, Hal.”

They set off along a thin path that borders the docks before arching out into the wider jungle. Their silence is companionable for the most part as they walk, the only sound the squelching of their boots through the mud and the sound of thick, heavy raindrops cascading down through the canopy of the jungle. The further they walk from the docks and the road into Halar, the heavier the silence gets, blanketing them with the ancient, mysterious air of the planet. He’s almost enjoying it; civilization can be such an overload on his senses sometimes, and he tries to enjoy the living Force when he can. But he can tell that it’s getting to her, though, as her posture stiffens and she fiddles with the pockets on her thin jacket as they walk.

“So!” She chirps finally. “Real nice place, right? Definitely where I’d have my destination wedding.”

“I’ve always pictured mine on Korriban,” he replies drily.

She laughs, nearly losing her footing on a slick patch of mud before righting herself. She kicks up her heels as the momentum slows, splattering the back of her jacket with thick clumps of mud and cold, dirty water. Swearing under her breath, she reaches back and wipes some of it off, shaking her fingers to get it loose.

When she notices him laughing, she flicks some in his direction. It splatters on his face, cold and slimy, and he wipes it off, scowling as it tangles in his neat, golden beard. With a resigned sigh, he shrugs out of his duster, cloaking his lightsaber with the Force and maneuvering it from the inseam pocket of his coat to the inside of his boot.

“Here,” he holds out his coat with two fingers. When she stares at it for a moment, he gives it a little shake. “Well? We won’t make it very far if you die a dramatic death from a cold.”

“Hey, I’m not dramatic,” she says, taking the proffered coat. “You’re the one who talks like a noble.”

She throws the coat over her shoulders and jimmies her arms through the too-big sleeves. The dark leather duster falls a little past her knees and the sleeves billow around her as if she were wearing Jedi robes. He knows she’ll need it, though; Dromund Kaas is infamous for its humidity, but the chilling rain can often come as a surprise to newcomers. She wouldn’t have known that, but he’s used to it and the duster wasn’t a good look for him anyway.

“I don’t think we’re very far,” Vette says as they come over the crest of a higher point in the path.

Straight ahead, the path curls its way through the underbrush before dipping down again, where Mexus knows the river must be and, beyond that, his family’s vineyard. To their right, the thick trees open up into a small window of steely grey sky and the admittedly small skyline of Halar below.

“Sith aren’t that great with architecture,” Vette observes from next to him. He glances sideways at her and studies her profile: gentle, sloping nose and pursed lips, pointed chin jutted slightly outward and high, prominent brow. Her signature is thoughtful and reserved, a sharp contrast from the overflowing vibrancy he’d felt on Nar Shaddaa.

“It’s very...Imperial,” Mexus lands on after a pause. He’s never given it much thought; the estate is more reminiscent of ancient Sith buildings, like the Dark Temple but with more nobility and less uncertain terror.

“I wonder what they’re like down there, you know? Like if they have jobs and families and stuff,” Vette muses.

“I’m sure they do,” Mexus says with a little laugh. Well, he’s _almost_ sure. He hasn’t actually met most of them.

“I mean, I know I talked a lot of smack about the Wrath, but there’s real people here too,” she says. “It’s weird to think about. The Republic always wants to make it seem like everyone in the Empire is pure evil, and vice versa, but neither of ‘em ever think about the people who actually just live here.”

“Everything becomes a number in wartime,” Mexus says casually. It’s a line from Quinn, and a sentiment widely adopted by Dark Council members and Grand Moffs alike.

Vette snorts, but there’s little humor there. “Maybe that’s why the Outer Rim’s getting so crowded. You get addicted to gambling, but at least you’re not a number.”

“You’re rather anti-government,” Mexus comments airily.

“Not anti-government,” Vette amends. “I vote every time the Hutts nominate sector mayors on Nar Shaddaa. I’m just…pro-freedom.”

She seems to have overwhelmed herself with her own seriousness and tries for a lighter tone. “Let them eat cake and all that.”

“ _That_ I can get behind,” he says.

Their laughter is cut short by the heavy, wet trudge of a march through the underbrush, sending birds fluttering from their perches in the trees above them. Vette and Mexus exchange a short glance before moving as one and crouching in the bushes, inching across the path and as close as they dare to where the trees thin out into a rugged clearing. An IRS lieutenant emerges into the clearing in full dress, leading the party. There are only two guards trailing after him, slumped behind him with their rifles cocked. Between the guards, dragging their feet as they march, are six slaves, all aliens and all constricted with shock collars around their necks. They’re caked in mud and sway on unsteady feet, with eyes downcast and gaunt cheeks pale and sickly. This is no doubt a return trip from the caverns, but it won’t be the end of their service to the Empire.

Before he can snap out of his musings, Vette has already drawn her pistols and deepens her crouch, ready to spring into the clearing. Mexus clamps a hand down on her shoulder and gives her a disbelieving look.

“What?” Vette hisses. “I’m not just going to sit here and watch them march on.”

“You’ll be killed,” Mexus says, the same way he would recite the Sith Code or give orders to Quinn. It’s a fact, not a sentiment.

“You don’t have to help if you’re scared,” Vette snips, but he can’t tell if she’s teasing or not. Either way, his pride flares up, which could be what she wanted all along. “I can take a couple of Imp mouth-breathers.”

And with that, she hefts up her blasters and leaps into the clearing, firing wildly toward the IRS grunts. There’s a split second of uncoordinated surprise on the Imperials’ part before the firing returns. Mexus clears himself from his daze as well, his pride and sharp irritation still flaring, partly at Vette but mostly at his exasperation with Imperial upstarts, from Quinn to Krev to this nameless lieutenant. He bursts into the clearing, fumbling with the blaster he never actually taught himself to use, and hones his focus with the Force, firing a few shaky shots toward the group.

The Imperials fan out around them, the guards shouldering the rifles and the lieutenant sneering down the barrel of his pistol. Vette comes up behind him and presses her back against his, moving together in small circling steps until the air is so tense that Mexus is certain he can feel it about to snap. And it does. Vette fires and catches the lieutenant on his shoulder and he goes down, his finger squeezing the trigger as he falls. The bolt goes low, and Vette skitters out of the way with a surprised “eep”, the bolt kicking up a splatter of steaming mud.

The remaining two guards open fire, which Mexus happily returns. From her crouched position, Vette fires at the taller guard’s knee, drawing a howl of pain from him as he buckles from the wound and collapses. Mexus fires the final shot at the last guard, aiming high to hit the vulnerable spot on the guard’s neck he knows is there in between the armor. He propels the bolt forward the Force, knowing it will connect, but his own front is exposed with his raised arm, and just before the guard goes down, he fires and catches Mexus on the left side of his chest.

Mexus bites out a curse and lets his blaster fall from his hand, reaching up to prod at the hot, smoldering wound. It isn’t very deep, but it had burnt through the thick, protective fabric and bored a nasty imprint into his skin. He’s about to generate a wave of the Force to take away the stinging sensation and numb the skin into a healing state when he catches Vette looking at him, jaw dropped. She holsters her guns and comes to inspect him, her fingers prodding at the burnt fabric.

“Hells, Hal, sit down before you pass out,” she says, pushing him down onto a fallen log and turning back to inspect the group of slaves, who stare at them with an almost veiled surprise. Mexus had almost forgotten they were there.

She addresses the group and smiles, breathless and relieved, “You guys are free, okay? We’re going to help you get out of here, but first we have to patch up my friend.”

The group exchanges a few uncertain glances between themselves before a tall, well-built Twi’lek woman steps forward and speaks in fast-paced, musical Ryl. Vette steps back, brow creasing as she works out a translation and then nods slowly. Her voice shifts into something deep-rooted and steady as she responds in her people’s language, silvery like moonlight and almost ethereal. Mexus finds himself entranced by her shift into the accent, though a bit stilted, but decides to blame it on his apparent blood loss. When they’re finished, Vette reaches out and clasps the woman’s hands before crossing over to the forgotten, overturned supply crate one of the slaves had been carrying and rummages through it until she finds a pack of kolto. She crouches by Mexus’ side and unbuttons his shirt enough to push it aside and take a look at the wound again. She hisses a bit when she sees it, her eyes narrowing with disgust and dismay.

“That bad?”

“I’ve seen worse, but this still isn’t pretty,” Vette admits. She flicks her eyes up to his. “This is probably going to sting. And then I’ll have to stitch it up, okay?”

“I’ve had worse,” he assures her. But when she starts applying the gel to the broken skin around the actual hole, he clamps down on his lip, his jaw aching from the action. Her mouth is set in concentration, but he can feel the nervous energy radiating off of her. For once he craves the distraction of her rambling, so through clenched teeth, he says, “I didn’t know you could speak Ryl.”

She half-smiles, “Well, it _is_ our language. You probably saw I don’t know it that well, though. My mother tried to teach us some before we were separated, but I’ve been trying to teach myself.”

She finishes dressing the outskirts of the blast wound and moves onto the actual hole itself, dabbing some of the blood and burnt skin with a strip of cloth before squirting some of the gel directly onto it.

“You were separated from your mother? Why?”

“I was a slave growing up,” she admits in a tired voice. At his incredulous look, her eyebrows shoot up. “Surprise! I got free when I was about twelve, but by then my mother and sister had been sold away. My friends and I have been trying to look for them in between jobs, but nothing really pays good enough for me to take time off.”

“I…didn’t know,” he says, feeling woozy again. He thinks about the scars on the back of her neck and the understanding stings more than the kolto setting itself into his wound. “I’m sorry.”

He means it, too, and she must be able to tell because she shrugs, looking uncomfortable again. “I don’t really go around broadcasting it, yenno? I’m free now, though, and I’m going to do whatever it takes to stay that way. And do what I can to free who I can.”

She sticks the tip of her tongue out of the corner of her lip as she begins to thread the hole shut. He watches her work, taking in the determined, fierce look in her eyes. She notices him staring and laughs a bit, “Sorry. Guess I was rambling again.”

“I don’t mind,” he says as she snips off the thread and buttons his shirt back up. His chest still aches, but the kolto has started to set in, feeling refreshing and cold against his torn skin. “Thank you.”

He isn’t entirely sure if he means for the stitches or for trusting him enough to talk about her past, but she doesn’t press. Instead, she smiles a bit again, chasing away the storminess in her eyes, and they turn their attention back to the group of slaves. They make quick work of taking off their collars and tossing them into the mud, forgotten. Vette goes to raid the storage crate again before they set off, and Mexus searches his pockets until he finds the token bearing his family’s crest. It was supposed to be his get out of jail free card, if Nar Shaddaa took a turn for the worst, but he decides that they need it more than he will now.

“Does anyone understand me?” He says in Basic, his voice low. When no one responds, he tries again in unsteady Huttese, “How about now?”

A Devaronian man steps forward, “That’s better.”

“Take this,” Mexus says, pressing the token into his hand. “If anyone gives you any trouble on the way to the docks, show them that and you won’t be bothered.”

The man inspects it with narrowed eyes, “And what the hell is it, exactly?”

“A Sith family crest,” Mexus says. At the man’s incredulous stare, he continues, “Powerful enough that no one will question you. Trust me.”

“I guess we don’t really have a choice,” the Devaronian concedes.

Vette rations out the supplies, giving the former slaves the majority of the kolto and ration bars, as well as the blasters the IRS men had carried. She takes only a few extra clips for herself, as well as a few rations bar for the two of them. It takes her a minute to work out the translation, but she gives the Twi’lek woman instructions on how to find Zar and the cargo ship before wishing them all good luck. A few of them approach Mexus and Vette before turning down the path toward the docks, taking their hands and murmuring in soft, nearly holy voices that Mexus can only assume are thanks.

The last of them to head away is the Devaronian, who nods once to Mexus before disappearing down the hill and through the brush.

Vette heaves a long sigh and turns to him, dusting her hands off.

“Well, are you good to walk?” She asks. “We don’t have much further before we hit the vineyard.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to rob the Wrath more,” he says, and even though she laughs, he certainly means it.

They set off down the hill toward the river, leaving only the defeated Imperials and a pile of broken slave collars in their wake.

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone's interested, the prompt that inspired me can be found here: http://writing-prompt-s.tumblr.com/post/146481183519/in-a-fantasy-land-the-demon-king-goes-to-a


End file.
